


Alone

by elluvias



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, I cannot stress this enough, M/M, and attempted suicide, and depression, but the rest of this is just seriously punching you in the soul, everything hurts while reading this, it could be very triggery for anyone who gets upset with suicide as the main topic, it's full of angst, making pretty much everyone cry, making you cry, making your feels cry, there's talk of suicide, this is very angsty, with like a semi potential implied piece of fluff at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elluvias/pseuds/elluvias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honestly Bilbo shouldn't even be alive, so why is he? It's a question he asks himself every day, especially since he really doesn't want to be alive either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously guys angst ahead. This will hurt. IT WILL HURT. Suicide is more than mentioned as well as attempted suicide and suicide idealization.

He was alone.

There is something painfully familiar about that sensation. Perhaps it is because he has spent the last decade or so quietly resigning himself to it. It doesn’t matter if he is in a crowd or not, he is alone. He must always be alone for he is broken. There are cracks in his heart and his mind that all other hobbits are aware of. He is naught but a living shade, a respectable living shade, one who is quite gentlemanly, one who never imposes his presence on others. He does what he must, when he must, and does not linger, does not try to insert himself into the world. He appears and then fades away just as quickly.

He was cursed.

He was alone.

His toes curl into the soft dark brown earth as he stares at the dwarves. There is a bitter aching envy that shoots through him as he watches them. There is camaraderie, affection, lasting unwavering friendships tying them all together. He can see the tiny strings of fate that bind them together, glitteringly bright threads thinner than a strand of spider’s silk and stronger than any metal that can be found or forged. They are all tied together, they are all wound and bound together in a beautiful tangle.

He was _alone_.

What he wouldn’t give to have at least a single strand tying him to someone, anyone. But his were all severed years ago, cut through and leaving him adrift in the world. Lost and so painfully terribly alone. Every day is filled with fear, every moment his heart beats is a stabbing ache. Gandalf had wondered what had made Bilbo so flighty, so strange, so nervous and focused on tangible objects as opposed to the intangible ideals of adventure and friendship.

Bilbo will never ever utter why and he knows that the wizard cannot see the strings, not like hobbits. He knows Gandalf cannot see the frayed ends of Bilbo’s strings floating and flickering in every breeze, trailing behind him as he walked. Bilbo will never speak of _that_ day. The day that marked Bilbo forever, the one that changed him irreversibly. Bilbo will not let Gandalf’s fond memories of his mother be soured or darkened by anything that Bilbo could say, probably should say, but never will.

Why speak about such things at all? It’d be like speaking to the air or to the wall. Things Bilbo has done many times before. They could not speak back, they never can, for they are not animate, they are not sentient. If he does not talk to them though he could go weeks without saying a thing at all.

He was alone.

He’s been alone since the day his mother killed herself. He hadn’t known, of course, that was what she was doing. In fact, in all honesty, Bilbo knew he would have tried to get into her room faster. Perhaps if he had been stronger, or if he had just _known_ he could have done something, anything, to help her hold on. Instead he hadn’t done enough, hadn’t been enough, and the moment he walked in, watching in mute horror as she finished the ritual. There had been no time for him to save her or flee the area, as magic pulsed around them both. Belladonna had slumped to the ground like a puppet with severed strings, boneless, limp, dead. Bilbo had not been better off, shock overtaking him as he mirrored his mother in every aspect on the ground. Save he still breathed.

He shouldn’t have. A hobbit with no strings binding them was dead. Anyone without strings binding them was dead. He was a freak, unnatural, extraordinary, and very much viewed as a living corpse. His heart still beat, he ate, he breathed, but he was not alive. He was not alive but neither was he dead. Not yet.

But he _was_ alone.

Bilbo would perform the ritual himself, again, to try and end it all. But it wouldn’t work, because it was the most painless way to go for everyone all around. The links and threads being dissolved between the performer and all those they were tied to. It made mourning easier. Except Bilbo’s threads led to nowhere and what was left, lingering on him, was more stubborn than the dwarves he travelled with. They did not dissolve and he did not die, only felt agonizing pain the one time he tried to give himself a true death.

No, Bilbo will not let Gandalf hear the tale that should be told. Gandalf was not there when Belladonna died and he missed her funeral by a week. Gandalf had mourned her passing stronger than what someone with a disconnected string to her should feel. Bilbo had understood though, too, for he grieved just as much. It was through Bilbo’s unnatural grief that had given Bilbo the ability to convince Gandalf that she had simply died of sickness. Bilbo simply did not tell Gandalf what kind and while it was still truthful, it wasn’t and would never be the whole truth. That was only for Bilbo to know.

It was when they reach Rivendell that anyone noticed that something might not be right with their burglar.

Lord Elrond gave him a double take. There was an expression on his face, one of open grief and surprise, one that has pain, one that is haunted, one that is furious, it is all of those and more. It lasts only two seconds before the Lord had schooled his features into a distant stoic mask. Yet Gandalf had caught the look, and he was not alone.

Bilbo only let himself catch Fili’s eyes for a moment. The dwarf was staring at him, a contemplative gleam in his eye, like Bilbo had just become a puzzle for him to figure out. That there was something there, something that he needed to unravel.

It took all that was within him not to start laughing hysterically at the notion that he was tangled up in _anything_.

He was **alone**.

That was the problem with everything. He was alone and he was scared and hurting, he would be such for the rest of his life. Lady of Mercy look upon him in kindness, to help him keep his head throughout the journey. Perhaps that was why he could still talk to the trolls, still play them, what was the terror of being cooked compared to the terror that tomorrow the sun would rise and he lived to see it. What was the terror of continuing to live compared to the terror of being killed? Honestly if he hadn’t a job, an obligation, and some strange twisted desire to help the dwarves Bilbo might have simply let them eat him.

Bilbo couldn’t even lie to himself about why he wanted to. The dwarves couldn’t see his strings. They couldn’t see how utterly broken he was. Their sight was shielded and it gave him the faint flickering hope that perhaps, maybe, if he tried hard enough, if he did enough _right_ then one of them could hopefully, would hopefully, become his friend. That’s all he wanted. It’s all he’s ever wanted with such bitter burning passion. He wanted a friend, anyone, anything, would do. He’s desperate and hurting and so painfully cold inside his own soul.

He was utterly pathetic and would not, could not, deny that. Physically weak, untrained with weapons, his only good point was that he was intelligent and quiet. That he could become the burglar they wanted him to be. For who else could be so easily hidden than someone who was half dead?

It shouldn’t have been a surprise when Lord Elrond cornered him away from the others. The concern in his dark kind eyes was even more startling for Bilbo to see. No one had been concerned for him in years. Not even Gandalf, who was as close to a friend as Bilbo had, had become overly worried over him. Then again the wizard had many troubles and thirteen dwarves to look after (as well as the rest of Middle Earth) and wizards did not see strings. It was odd that they didn’t and Bilbo wondered the why of it often, even as he was grateful for the metaphorical blindness.

“Who did this to you?”

Lord Elrond’s voice was low simultaneously soothing and authoritative. It made Bilbo want to reach out, to grasp at the expensive robes as curl into the great lord’s body. It made him want to weep because someone was concerned instead of avoidant. He kept his eyes dry though and forced a faint smile on his face. For as much as he wanted to tell the story, that he wanted to let someone know the truth…Elrond had known his mother. Belladonna had spoken of him on many occasions, telling Bilbo all about the kindness of this particular elf in general. They had been friends and Elrond had thought on his mother fondly.

“It was an unfortunate accident in my tweens, Lord Elrond. The Company does not know nor did they have a hand in it.”

“For all the skills dwarves possess, they do not have the knowledge nor the ability to do such a thing. If I truly suspected they had a hand in this, they would not have dined at my table nor had my welcome. Are you in pain?”

Bilbo hesitated at the question. Yet it could not go unanswered, Bilbo knew that. The great elf would not leave him be if he did not answer.

“Every moment of every day I hurt. I can barely remember what it feels like not to have it, this pain. I am always cold and always scared. There are times when it overwhelms me, where I cannot function at all and can only lay down and cry and pray that Nienna takes pity on me and takes me from my suffering and lets me die. Most days I simply wish to die.”

Looking at Elrond Bilbo gave the elf lord a thin smile. His expression was worn and his eyes sad. Yet he tried to give Elrond comfort, for it was not in Bilbo’s nature to let others hurt.

“Yet I will not seek my death until I have done what I have sworn to do for the dwarves. Perhaps on the way back I will meet my merciful end. You need not fear I will hurl myself off a cliff as soon as I leave your sight. I have had many opportunities so far to make my death seem an accident or through inaction let myself be killed.”

“It does not give me great comfort to hear that you still plan on ending your life somehow. I know that is all I can get from you, a promise to survive whatever odd quest has led you from the Shire.”

Their conversation soon ended and after several days where the Company still lingered in Rivendell, Bilbo found his pack had several different kinds of medicine neatly packed into his belongings. It made Bilbo smile, looking at the gifts and knowing that they had come from Elrond. The elf lord could not heal him. There was no magic that could fix this, fix him. There was no saving him. Yet Lord Elrond, a healer at his core, had done what he could to ease Bilbo’s suffering along the journey.

It was weeks later though, that he found a time to use them. That sounded strange, even in Bilbo’s own mind. It perhaps could have better been thought of, a time where he needed to dull his pain. To make the hurting less.

They were all atop the Carrack, they were all injured, Thorin most obviously but no one had come out of Goblin Town unscathed. Luckily Bilbo had his pack. Luckily Bilbo still had his herbs. So when Bilbo was quite certain everyone else was sleeping he carefully took out a brown packet and poured its contents into his waterskin. The resulting concoction was foul, but it spread heat through his body and eased the pain of his battered pysch and broken body.

“I was wondering when you’d finally use that.”

Bilbo startled even as he felt the strange muddled feeling wrapping around his mind. It kept him from squeaking too loudly. Fili stared down at him, a curious expression on his face.

“Use what?”

“The herbs Lord Elrond had me put in your pack. I overheard your conversation with him in Rivendell.”

“Ah.”

“He didn’t tell me how you were wounded though. I’ve been trying to find the cause ever since. Yet I’ve seen no signs of physical ailment until today but I doubt that what pain you are in now is a direct result of your preexisting condition. What is it?”

There was no polite segue into the question. It was blunt, but that was to be expected. Dwarves often were keen on subtleties. Well at least if they were they all were very poor at it. It was hard to tell what the answer to that unspoken question was. Bilbo knew that he had every right to refuse to answer, just as he knew Fili would not let go of the line of questioning. He knew that he could easily claim it wasn’t Fili’s business.

Still he beckoned Fili closer and motioned for the dwarf to sit down.

“Do you know that there are threads between people? That they connect two people together, binding them, a sign that you are to meet at some point in your lives and care. It doesn’t matter what sort of caring, if it is good or ill. Many meetings are preordained, even if we do not or cannot know the manner in which two are bound, let alone when they will meet and under what circumstances. Everyone has these, even orcs and goblins. All sentient beings are wrapped in them. The connections break when someone dies and the threads fade away. And I…”

Bilbo paused turning his gaze from Fili up to the darkening sky above them.

“All hobbits can see them, as well as elves. I don’t know why we can see them but we do.”

His hands clenched, feeling his heart beating faster, lodging up into his throat. He wanted to stop. He knew he could, he knew he’d be able to cry off saying the rest this evening. Even if Fili looked at him in a mixture of confusion and fascination.

“There was an accident. In the Shire we’ve…figured out a way to dissolve the threads. When we do so we die. It’s painless and the way the threads are dissolved makes those who are left behind a little less grief stricken. It’s the most common form of suicide, though hobbits wishing to take their own lives isn’t a common occurrence. It’s still known though and while killing one’s self isn’t approved of or encouraged by any means…it’s still taught that if one simply has to die they should at least be courteous to others and make sure the pain isn’t as great. And I… I was present at the tail end of the ritual. I walked in unexpectedly. I don’t even think she realized I was there and I couldn’t escape, I couldn’t get out of the room in time. I was caught and…”

Breathing in slowly Bilbo couldn’t move away when Fili’s rough hand brushed his cheek. The swordsman’s eyes were filled with concern and slowly dawning horror as he began to connect the dots, put the puzzle pieces in place.

“All of my threads are severed, they are not dissolved. But even that should have killed me, the mental shock of it, the trauma. I should be dead but I had the audacity to not be respectable enough to follow the way of things. I am not truly alive you see. My body is and my mind is but my soul isn’t. That’s why…why I’m alone. Not just because I’m alive and a freak of nature for being so it’s because…while I still have my threads everyone else…everyone else who had been connected to me, theirs disappeared. I’m considered a living ghost in the Shire and the worst of it is…”

Bilbo held up his left hand, shaking he opened it and reached out with his right hand. Taking the dark red thread in his shaking hand he held it, concentrated, and let Fili take in with barely concealed awe as the tattered silken thread was revealed to the dwarf. Bilbo’s bottom lip trembled as he held it for a few more seconds before letting his right hand drop and the gossamer thread faded from Fili’s view. There was wonder and confusion.

“It was tied to your hand, wasn’t it? It was on your pinkie. What does it mean?”

“A-a lover, a soul mate. I was… I never knew who…but it’s. They’re probably out there confused and hurt and wondering why their relationships never last because they’re searching even if it is unconsciously for me. They’ll look their entire life for me. They will never truly find peace in someone’s arms and they’ll never be able to find me! They’ll be lost and alone, instinctively following the thread even if it’s disappeared and it’ll lead to nowhere. It’ll lead them to nothing because it isn’t connected to me anymore.”

Covering his mouth with his hands Bilbo stifled a sob. It wouldn’t do to wake the others with his blubbering, to bring them over to investigate why their burglar was in tears. Fili’s expression softened and he moved forward, wrapping his arms around Bilbo and holding him tightly to his chest. His life wasn’t the only one ruined by his mother’s actions, and Bilbo felt the keen ache at that knowledge. He had not been able to save her, he had not been able to save himself, so why did he wish that he could save his unknown soulmate? That he had a way of finding them and explaining, to apologize profusely to them, to try and get them to understand he hadn’t wanted to be severed. That perhaps they could still try even if their threads didn’t connect anymore. But he would never be able to, he would never know, and they would never know and it was such a wretched fate that he never wished on anyone else.

He just wanted to make it stop hurting. He wanted the pain to end. He wanted so many unattainable things. Things that should have been his, but now had been taken from him.

“You foolish hobbit. Why did you ever think coming with us was a good idea?”

Fili murmured into Bilbo’s hair. The hobbit’s sobs slowed into hiccups, but he didn’t move away from Fili.

“I didn’t.” He finally replied with a hoarse whisper. “I knew it was a bad idea. I always knew. I just wanted two things, only two and I thought this….this would be the only way I could get them.”

“What were they?”

“Friendship….and death.”

Fili’s arms tightened around Bilbo. The dwarf took a deep breath as if to steady himself.

“You have the former already. You are _my_ friend Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. You are ours, you are our friend. And I know…I know that you want it to end, that you want it to stop hurting. But I am selfish Bilbo, all of us are horribly selfish. We’re dwarves. You are ours and even though it hurts you to still go on we will not let you go. We will not let you die until you absolutely must. We will guard your time amongst us jealously, we will hoard you, for you are our friend and are therefore precious. Understand this is part of our nature and we won’t bend on it even if you beg us to. We’re stubborn. In gaining our friendship you’ve condemned yourself to living a long life.”

Bilbo bit his lip at Fili’s words. He should be annoyed at the very least that Fili was taking away his choice and ignoring his wishes. Yet Bilbo had sworn to himself that he would make it to the end of their journey if he could. That he would burgle whatever it was that Thorin wanted him to steal from Smaug. That he did not plan to die until after they had done what they had come to do. Yet he was soothed that for once, for once someone cared. More than one someone if Fili’s words were the truth. He couldn’t smile, he was too exhausted and worn, the herbs that had loosened his tongue were now prodding him to sleep. To rest while he was being held by Fili.

“If you stay my friend I don’t mind living just a little bit longer than planned.”

“You’ll never be alone again, not like you have been, I swear it.”

Unbeknownst to them, under the cover of darkness, a single floating piece of thread found its mate, torn ragged edges sliding together, mending and becoming whole once more.


End file.
